


The Croatian Conundrum

by carryonstarkid, Heavenward (PreludeInZ)



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Californian Limes, F/M, Nineteenth Century Literature, Romance, The Trouble With Blonds, X-treme Yacht Club, obscene amounts of fluff, relationships, something about seventy-seven dollars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:56:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7316011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryonstarkid/pseuds/carryonstarkid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/Heavenward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Gordon both have a thing for Blondes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. by the whims of a whirlwind

So maybe they have blondes in common.

How weird is _that_ , though, having something in common with Scott.

The two key pieces of evidence in favour of that conclusion are currently getting chummy over by the bar; leaning two blonde heads together in that immediately intimate, comfortable, _terrifying_ way that women have, particularly when discussing their respective dates.

Penelope’s handily provided the party and their invitations to it , a gorgeously opulent affair aboard someone’s yacht. The evening’s been spent cruising lazily off the coast of Croatia, music and food and booze and beautiful, _beautiful_ people.

It takes a hell of a crowd to make Lady Penelope look plain, but then, maybe that’s what sets her apart. She’s opted for the little black dress; dark like a hole’s been cut out of the universe, just for her to step inside and wriggle those hips into, the silver buttons up the back hugging the curve of her spine like the handle of the big dipper. The only thing better than looking at Penelope from the back is getting to watch her _turn around_.

If they’ve got blondes in common, he and Scott, they definitely don't seem to share the belief that blondes belong in a man’s life to be stared at appreciatively from across a dance floor. Scott snaps his fingers in his little brother’s eyeline, clears his throat. “—I was _saying_ , Gordon, I was talking to the captain, and—”

The captain’s dress probably came off a rack, and this is the sort of crowd that would notice. This is also the sort of crowd that wouldn’t _dare_ comment, not with the Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward laughing in Captain Jane Carter’s ear, and a hand on the wrist of her new best friend, delicate and complimentary and daring anyone to so much as mention the word “bargain”. “What, your Captain? Chrissakes, Scott, Pen didn’t wrangle this thing together for you to call your plus-one ’ _Captain_ ’. Call her Jane.”

In a reversal of roles, Scott’s in worsted grey sharkskin and Gordon’s the one in deep dark blue. Scott’s shirt is pale pink, Gordon’s tie is an exercise in deception–plain black at a distance, but with its floral pattern picked out in tiny sparkles of pinpoint swarovski crystal. This is what happens when your girlfriend catches you hard at work on a vintage denim jacket with your grandmother’s antique Bedazzler.

Scott rolls his eyes and gives his brother that down-the-nose look of long-suffering tolerance. “No, the _Captain_ -Captain. The boat captain.”

“Oh. Yeah?”

They’re out on one of the upper decks, with the light off the shore behind them, and the light radiating off the yacht seeming to outshine the whole sky overhead. Scott’s got both hands resting back on the railing behind him, Gordon’s got more of a casual lean going, angled to best appreciate the view of the bar, and not to cover for just how short he is next to his brother. Scott’s still making small talk, and Gordon’s definitely not listening as Penelope drops a cocktail napkin and leans down to pick it up. “—was saying this thing cost almost twenty billion dollars to build. Three helicopters, a submarine, pools forward and aft. Twenty  _billion_. That’s…what, that’s like a year’s worth of flight hours in One. That’s insane. On a _pleasure craft_.”

“Pleasure,” Gordon echoes, crafting the illusion of attention, though he needs to bite his lip and introduce a little pain into the equation, when it comes to the way Penelope’s shoulders dip down beneath the straps of that goddamn slice of vintage Dior.

“I just, sometimes I think, hey—maybe what we do with our money isn’t actually _that_ crazy, y'know? Gordon?”

Gordon hasn’t been listening, so Gordon doesn’t know.

But, when in doubt, and especially around Scott—blind, wholehearted agreement. “Abso _lutely_. One hundred percent  _insane_. Bonkers. Fucking nutso. Lock ‘im up, throw away the  _key_. Crazy. Yup. I _know_. ‘sides, though, that submarine is not a _submarine-_ submarine, it is a little wind-up bath toy that got blown all outta proportion. _Puttputtputtputtputt.”_ Sound effects are convincing _. “_ Yeah. I’ve already seen the SS-Ha Ha Funny Joke.”

The worst thing about having big brothers is having a lot of them. The worst thing about the biggest one is that he has  _no compunction_ about seizing hold of a guy’s ear and just  _twisting_ like an utter _bastard_ and, “—what the god! What! Ow! Why!”

“We’re having a brotherly, heart-to-heart conversation,” Scott informs him, in his Thunderbird-1 voice. “I’m attempting to sort of lead in to asking you your advice about something sort of personal and kind of sensitive, and I don’t actually get the feeling you’re listening.”

Gordon’s clamped a hand over his ear and retreated out of grabbing range, glaring and lecturing, “Rule one of the heart-to-heart, no yanking on Gordon’s ears! Rule two, deeply personal conversations are to take place in the unlikely silences that happen after periods of intense social engagement! Both parties must be emotionally exhausted in order to engage in maximum vulnerability! Rule three—I forget! But I mean, what the _hell_ , Scooter, this is basic groundwork, relationship-wise—”

Scott’s answering sigh is heavy, exasperated and gets cut off by an irritated click of his teeth. “You’re drunk,” he decides, and maybe comes to the conclusion that a serious conversation with Gordon about _anything_ wouldn’t actually be all that beneficial anyway.

“ _There’s_ rule three. And I’m _tipsy_ , let’s not be insulting.”

“Whatever. Forget it. Jesus, here I thought that I could count on Penelope’s taste to somehow account for something other than your perpetual refusal to take anything seriously. Because fuck the fact that I might have _an actual problem_ and want your stupid _advice_.”

Gordon blinks at him. “Aw, dude. Shit. Sorry.”

“Forget it.”

Well, no, not happening. Gordon approaches again, boosts himself up to sit on the railing and elbow his brother. “Hey. Hey, man, c'mon. Spill, Scotty, what’s up? All ears.”

Scott sulks like a champion, but in his defense, never for long. Eventually he shrugs, and Gordon realizes abruptly that despite having a carefully chosen view of the blonde he’s got for his plus-one, Scott’s been looking everywhere  _but_ in her direction. His shoulders drop a little more heavily than they should. “I don’t know. Captain. My Captain. Jane. What do you think of her?”

Before Gordon can even start to reassure his big brother that Jane is absolutely, one hundred percent super great and  _amazing_ , Scott sighs again and continues, “—because I think she might kind of hate this, and I think this is all a really big mistake.”


	2. not in kansas anymore

The contents of Captain Jane Carter’s leather purse include her ID, her concealer, an old receipt, a gift card to her local coffee shop, an emergency tampon, a MetroCard, and exactly seventy-seven dollars in cash laid out in twenties, fives, and a generous pile of singles.

She now understands that perhaps the singles were a mistake.  

As were the twenties and fives, for that matter, because she is not entirely sure that anyone aboard this ship has actually ever seen anything below a hundred dollar bill—or, more likely, entire stacks of them.  As the night goes on she begins to realize that, to her present company, money is really more of an arbitrary, electronic number that fluctuates every now and again, but never really _changes._ It’s the sort of thing that gets  _invested_ rather than _spent_ , and such investments must be made swiftly, magnificently, and with a great deal of consideration as to who will notice and which tabloids will pick it up.

Jane flies a hundred hours a month.  Her largest investment is the overpriced food at the various airports she ends up at.

“You can say you dislike it, you know,” says the woman at her side, daintily waving down the smartly-dressed bartender as he tosses and twirls the party’s favorite drinks.  “No one will blame you.”

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward is also blonde, but that may be where their commonalities end.  This is made abundantly obvious when the Lady tips the bartender two-hundred euros directly into his shirt pocket and instructs him to “keep them coming” with a rather vivacious smile.  

Jane takes a nice long sip from something that tastes like berries, but feels like the tropics.  “Come again?“

“The party, darling,” says Lady Penelope.  “You’re allowed to hate it—everyone does.”

The question is present in her mind—the one that begs to know the reason anyone would attend if not one person planned to enjoy themselves—but she knows better than to ask.  It seems like the sort of question that is only ever posed by people with seventy-seven dollars in their purses.  And anyways, she almost understands.  Almost.  It’s hard to enjoy a drink when the bartender looks like he models in his free time.  It’s hard to feel beautiful when every woman she sees is wearing a designer gown.  Everything about the evening is outlined with a faint sense of superiority and it’s almost exhausting.

Still.  Open bar.

“Oh!  Oh no.  I don’t hate it.  This is the nicest event I’ve been to… well.  Ever. It’s just that”—a young woman passes them by, all gussied up in a dress that is, in a word, breathtaking.  Jane can’t help but watch as she walks—“the last party I went to, I almost swallowed a quarter trying to drink out of a solo cup, you know?”

Lady Penelope lets out a laugh, fluttery and light.  “Yes,” she says.  “This is a bit of a different situation.  Might be something of a culture shock.”

Jane knows for a fact that she is not particularly susceptible to culture shock, but the chandeliers are made of diamond, and the band is live, and the glass in her hand is the farthest from cheap red plastic it could possibly be.  “I am not the most comfortable I have ever been,” she says, sipping up the last of her drink.  There’s another one in front of her before she can even finish blinking.  “But!  If I can teach myself how to _fly_ , then I think I can probably handle this.  Seriously though, how much does a ship like this cost, do you think?  Millions?”

“Oh no, darling, don’t be silly,” Penelope replies.  The Lady gives a tap, tap, tap of her straw on the rim of her own glass and for a moment Jane’s able to let her breath fall.  That is until Lady Penelope takes a sip, swallows, and says, “Billions.  With a B.”

And that’s the end of that.  “Yeah.  Yeah, okay.  I think I could use another drink.”

“Agreed.”  There’s a smile from the Lady, accompanied by something of a toast.  They click their glasses together.  “Did you really teach yourself how to fly?”

“Well,” Jane allows.  “I taught myself the simulations.”

“It counts.”

“Totally counts.”

They drink, caught somewhere between giggles and that warm fuzzy feeling.  “I’ve decided I quite like you, Jane,” she says, dabbing her lips clean.  “Even if your shoes don’t match your dress in the slightest.”

Jane scoffs—a seventy-seven dollar move if ever there was one.  “We don’t all have our favorite designers on speed dial.”

“Yes,” says Penelope.  “He really should have helped you with that.  It’s unfair, leaving you to do this on your own—you call me, the next time this happens.  Did he even speak to you once before he picked you up?”

The _he_ in this situation is undeniably Scott, and the answer in this situation is undeniably no.  “Well, to be fair, he did have to invite me at some point.”

“Oh, and how did that go?” she wonders, leaning on her hands, tipping onto every bit of gossip Jane has to offer.  “Miserably, I assume.”

“I think I _might_ have preferred falling to my death in a burning plane.”

And there’s that laugh again, louder this time, and suddenly Jane understands why the magazines are obsessed with Lady Penelope.  She’s unbelievably easy to like.  “Oh you poor thing,” she says, wiping the tears from her eyes before they can fall into long, dark streaks.  “Well, that is good news, at least.”

“Is it?”

“Is it ever,” she says.  “See, there’s something about these boys.  They’re charming and funny and good at getting dates, but every once in a while they’ll meet a girl they can’t talk to, and, well…”

As she lifts her drink, Penelope’s cocktail napkin flutters to the floor.  Before Jane can even fully register what’s happening, Penelope’s already leaning over in that little black designer dress of hers and picking it up.  “Let’s just say that it’s hard to turn a Tracy boy speechless,” is her only conclusion.

They look across the floor, to where two boys are leaning up against the railing, mirroring the same expression of knit eyebrows and impassioned nods.  It’s Jane who points out the obvious.  “Or maybe they just have a thing for blondes.”


	3. the way to the Emerald City

Penelope drops a second cocktail napkin, rather more deliberately than she’d dropped the first one, and Gordon seems to remember—abruptly and just in time to avoid engaging in any kind of serious conversation—that this is actually a secret signal, and that he’s supposed to flit immediately across the room to Penelope’s elbow and find out just what she wants.

So Scott’s been left hanging with a “hold that thought, bro” and now he has to watch Gordon go right into devoted-suitor mode, all easy and comfortable and confident as he scampers across the dance floor and leans up against the bar next to her. He says something that makes Penelope and Jane laugh and Scott can’t help his irritation.

But then there’s a pang of guilt, because it’s not like it’s Gordon’s _fault_ , not like it’s anything that deserves irritation. Maybe it’s for the best that Scott hasn’t gotten to really grill his brother for advice, because maybe there’s no way to ask for this kind of advice in a way that isn’t insulting. It’s just, on the face of it, Scott’s never been clear on just how his younger brother’s managed to land himself in a successful, committed, year-long-and-going-strong relationship with someone so _obviously_ out of his league—

—and the same way the second napkin drops, Scott realizes that he’d been about to ask advice of the wrong member of said relationship.

As bolts from the blue go, this one is a hell of a relief. Don’t ask Gordon, ask _Penelope_. Obviously.

This line of thought means his next course of action is to get over to the bar and try and fumble through pretending he doesn’t notice just how out of place Jane is, and what an _idiot_ he is for not realizing that their last date was your standard dinner-and-a-movie, and that he’s ramped everything up from zero to five thousand _real quick_.

There’s a joke to be made about hands on throttles and how Scott always seems to go just a little too fast, but its tasteless, and he’s really trying to keep this whole thing pretty classy. Jane’s looking at him over the rim of her glass, and he takes advantage of the fact that she’s taking a drink to make his move.

“Penelope, can I borrow you for a minute? Only I dropped your name towards the other end of the boat earlier in the evening, and I should probably go make good on the promise of an introduction before I forget.”

Penelope’s probably rumbled him as soon as he says it, given the way her eyes flick between Scott and Jane, but she smiles and inclines her head graciously. “Oh, of course. I could do to stretch my legs. Upon whom am I meant to be making an impression?”

Scott shrugs, invents someone important sounding out of whole cloth, “Dunno, someone with a crown.” Immediately he kicks himself, because Jane’s eyes widen visibly. It’s entirely probable that there’s royalty of _some_ stripe aboard somewhere, but Scott hasn’t checked. Doesn’t really care. Certainly no one so obviously adorned, but now Scott imagines that the good Captain will be keeping her eyes peeled for royal headgear. “Or, I mean, uh. I guess a tiara.”

“Oh, heavens,” Penelope answers, though her tone has grown just slightly bland, and Scott knows he’s been caught in a lie. “Well, off we go then.” Gordon’s already held a hand out to help her down off her barstool, automatic, reflexive, like it’s second nature. Scott has to remind himself to turn back to his own date and excuse himself, apologize for pawning her off on Gordon.

Scott’s got good instincts. One of his hands goes affectionately to the small of her back, he smiles at her. “Jane, you don’t mind keeping Gordon on a short leash for a few minutes?”

“Sure.” Jane’s hand squeezes his arm, companionable. She leans over to rest an elbow on the bar as Gordon hops up onto Penelope’s recently vacated seat. “Shots?” she prompts, gleam in her eye.

“Shots!” Gordon agrees immediately, and beams. He leans conspiratorially back in his seat, back of his hand pretending to hide his comment to his brother as he whispers loudly, “ _I like your girlfriend_.”

Jane just laughs and Penelope smiles. “Do go easy,” she cautions blithely as she takes Scott’s arm, “He talks a good game but he’s an absolute lightweight.” And she whisks Scott away before Gordon can make a grand and theatrical show of protest. It’s true, anyway.

It’s not the sort of party that’s crowded. It’s the sort of party that’s perfectly proportioned to the scale of its setting, and it just seems natural to migrate one set of stairs lower, and start to amble along a relatively empty lower deck, running the length of the yacht. Scott waits for some signal that they’re safely out of earshot. It’s easiest to trust Penelope’s judgement as far as these things sorts of things are concerned.

True to form, the lady leads the conversation, and sets the pace of their leisurely walk down the length of the ship, such that they’ll have plenty of time to talk. “She’s quite charming,” Penelope says, and looks up at Scott with a smile. “You’re an utter _cad_ for not telling her we’d be flying out for an evening among multi-billionaires on a yacht that’s probably worth more than her company makes in a _decade_ , and further you’re a _fool_ for not letting me lend her a dress. Honestly, what _did_ you say?”

Scott groans, though he’s been giving himself the same internal lecture ever since they landed aboard said yacht. “I don’t know. It was Gordon’s idea! ‘Me and Penny are going yachting in Croatia, bring Jane’. I didn’t—I mean, I should’ve— _hell_. No, you know what, Penelope? I don’t know what the hell I should’ve done. Pretend like I think twice about yachting with multi-billionaires? Because _obviously I don’t_ , or I would’ve blown Gordon off and just asked her if she wanted…to….to go bowling or something.”

None of the blond members of their informal quartet are  _actually_ dumb, but sometimes Scott thinks the blonds have cooked up some sort of secret arrangement where they all play at it, because Penelope tilts her head and crinkles up her nose. “Bowling?”

“People go bowling. Hell, _we_ used to go bowling. Grandma bowls like she was in a league for it, because she _was_.”

Penelope drifts to the railing and peers out and downward, surveying the lower part of the ship. “I think there might be bowling…lane? A bowling court.”

Scott scoffs at this, wonders if it’s an affectation, if the Lady is poking ironical fun at him. “Alley.”

“Really? What an utterly ridiculous choice of term. A bowling alley, then, somewhere in the belly of this beastly thing, if it really takes your fancy.” Penelope says this as though she knows it absolutely does not, because her blue eyes looking up at him in the next moment are sharp and insightful, “But it sounds as though this is a symptom of a rather more severe affliction.”

It’s the prompt he’s been waiting for and he leans moodily against the railing beside her, “She hates this and she’s going to hate _me_ , because I’m a _dumbass_. It has to seem like…like I’m trying to ramp things up. That I’m trying to set a new tone, trying to show her what she’s got to _expect_ , going out with me.”

“And of course, these are all things you know because you’ve actually spoken to her, and not just made wild assumptions about the way Jane feels about the fact that you’re a multi-billionaire.” Penelope’s cool, effortless condescension is actually a welcome relief, when Scott imagines what he would’ve got from Gordon—sunshiney _Everything Is Awesome_ style platitudes, bubbles of iridescent positivity with no actual substance.

Scott’s not _actually_ hopeless, as far as relationships go. He’s had a few of major note, though things have been a little dry ever since—well, ever since Dad’s been taken out of the picture and IR has taken up the focus. Before Jane, his standard fare had been a bit more in the nature of keeping careful contact with one or two girls he’d known in college, the sort of relentlessly independent women who never had and never _would_ want to do something as ridiculous as actually _date_ him, but with whom drinks and dinner and uncomplicated, no-strings encounters were absolutely on the table. This is different. And he’s rusty and _knows_ it.

Still, he has the basics. “I _do_ know I have to talk to her.”

“Do you know what about?”

Well, yes.

And then again no, because it’s not something Scott’s ever been great at articulating. “Kinda. Maybe.”

Penelope nudges her elbow lightly against his, leaning side-by-side on the railing. “Consider this a test run,” she suggests. “No judgment, I’ll just listen.”

“Yeah. Lemme… I have to figure out how I wanna say this…”

“Well, you’ve got one up on Gordon, in that regard. Take your time.”

Scott does. He takes a good solid minute, and finds himself thinking about Gordon. The whole idea is esoteric, but maybe Gordon is as good a point to anchor it to as any. He can explain this as something that’s true about Gordon the same way he’s starting to think it might be true about Jane. “… Have you been out to California, yet? You and Gordon?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure, no.”

“Go, sometime. Make a point of it. If there’s ever a moment in time when you think you might have doubts about Gordon—if the fun ever starts to stop, if you ever start to get sick of him, if you’re ever worried about the spark—get out to the West Coast. Because you don’t _actually_ know Gordon until you’ve known what he’s like in California.”

Penelope’s listening, intent. Scott wonders if she’s ever thought about doubts, and what she’d do if she caught herself starting to have them. Probably. She’s a woman who makes plans, and backups for those plans. Scott likes to think of this as an exchange of intelligence, advice for advice. He continues, starts to hit his stride. “There’s this thing I think about, sometimes. Generally at altitude, right around Mach 7, when the world’s going by so fast it feels like the surface should be peeling off it. About places and people and people as places, and where the truest version of a person comes from. Gordon is California. A 100‰ raw, unfiltered product of the golden state, with the beach boy hair and the surfer bod and the way he unironically uses the term ‘bro’. That sounds insincere. But I mean it, though, and there’s more than that, it’s just hard to put it into words. There’s this thing that happens with Gordon and Cali. Hit the tarmac in LA and something just _changes_ about him. Something gets easier, something makes more _sense_. I don’t know if I’m explaining it, but I could say it to Virg or Johnny or Alan, they’d all know exactly what I mean.”

It’s not clear if Penelope knows exactly what he means. But she’s still rapt with attention and man, maybe it’s just possible that there’s something really, _actually_ solid about the year and change between the pair of them, Gordon and Penelope, because maybe this is what Penelope looks like when she’s a little bit in love. “Go on.” She pauses and needs to remind herself to add, “And what’s the bearing on our dear Captain Carter?”

Maybe Scott imagines the note of regret at the change of subject, grins to himself. Can’t help but lay a bit more of the groundwork. “Right. So Gordon’s California. Virgil’s Colorado–hah, all hemmed in by mountains, somehow capable of dealing with every flavour and configuration of natural disaster at once—yeah, that’s Virg. John’s Low Earth Orbit, or if that doesn’t count, then he’s New England, all that pure intellectualism by association. Take the boy out of MIT, can’t take the MIT outta the boy. Allie’s Cape Canaveral. Dad was the Island.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot.”

Scott shrugs, feels his cheeks get a little bit warm. “Yeah, well. Gets a bit monotonous at thirty-thousand feet, and generally I’ve got my brothers on the brain.”

“And Captain Carter? Where does _she_ fit, beneath your grand old flag?”

Well. This is the heart of the problem. He catches himself hedging, making excuses, dancing around the thing that’s so easy to explain about the people he loves—but maybe that’s the reason. Maybe he gets a little edgy when the L-word creeps into a conversation. “God. I am going to sound like an absolute sap, Penelope, and I don’t even have Gordon’s featherweight tolerance to blame for it. Good ol’ one-shot-wonder—“

“ _Jane_ , Scott.”

Jane.

Summer sunshine and that hot, dusty smell of dirt roads when it hasn’t rained in a week—or that electric charge in the air, that deep, primitive fear of a sky that towers, dark and black and foreboding, wind waiting to tear the world to pieces. Tornado shelters. Blue skies and wheat fields. Aureate hills. Crop dusting. Pell Grants and KSU. Hard work. Calloused palms. Denim overalls with the knees blown out, gingham shirts and fishtail french braids. Scott’s in Armani that costs a cool ten grand, and on the deck above doing shots with his little brother, _she’s_ in a dress she could’ve worn to her high school prom, and somehow that’s just so impossibly, perfectly endearing, he’s selfish enough not to care if she thinks she’s made a fool of herself.

“She’s Kansas.”


	4. the wizard, great and powerful

Glass strikes marble with a crisp  _crack_.  She feels red rise to her cheeks as fire barrels down her chest.  Her fist pounds one, two, three times against the countertop, acting as the breath she can’t take—the release she can’t find through the flame in her throat.  Lips purse.  Eyes twitch.  There’s a cough bubbling up somewhere between her heart and her head.  “ _Shit_.”

Gordon whoops for her, a giddy, wound-up sort of hoot that reverberates off of sparkling crystal.  “Take the lime—oh my god, the _lime_ , Jane.”

“Nope,” she chokes.  “No way.  I hate limes.”

His laugh is the sort of thing that _belongs_ on a billion-dollar yacht.  It’s sunshine and beaches and the smell of salt, warm and relaxed after a long summer day. “You’re telling me,” he drawls, “that you prefer _straight tequila_ to the citrus-sweet taste of a beautiful Brazilian lime?”

“Any day,” she confirms, and she shakes the sting from her jaw.  Finally, she can breathe.  “Oh man.  That’s the good stuff.  They sure don’t skimp on the drinks here, do they?”

“Not in Kansas anymore, huh Dorothy?”

“Definitely not.  Kansas had shittier tequila.”

“Better beer, though,” he says.

“Much better beer,” she confirms.  

His smile is bubbly, his cheeks turning a rosy red.  “God, I love you,” he says, throwing two fingers at the bar tender for another round.  “Jane Carter, will you marry me?”

“Mmm, sorry,” she says.  “I’m a little busy right now.  Maybe later.”

“Busy?” he says.  “With _what_?”

“Believe it or not, I’m actually on a date.”

“ _Oh._ Right, right, right.  And how’s that going?”

“My date with Lady Penelope?” she says.  “It’s going great.  Couldn’t be better.”

“Uh-huh,” he says.  “And how about the one with Scott?”

“Oh, well, _that_ date got swept up by a tornado and is currently waiting to land on the Wicked Witch of the East.”

“Looks like you’re over the rainbow, Captain.”

It’s the most truthful thing anyone’s said to her all night.  There’s an entirely new world at her feet now, displayed in beautifully vibrant Technicolor.  Everywhere she looks there’s _someone_ wearing _something_ —an extravagantly strange hairdo or a dress that belongs on a runway, not yet having trickled down into mainstream fashion.  There are grand, glistening jewels around the necks and wrists and fingers of every woman on board.  The men have bright silk pocket squares and platinum cufflinks.  She can’t help feeling as though she’s about to wake up, rambling on about her dream, about how Scott was there, and so was Gordon, and so was Penelope.

Gordon’s watching her, in that way that’s obviously supposed to go unseen.  Except she’s been feeling it all night—that weight of eyes on her, department store dress, flat hair, and seventy-seven dollars cash in her purse.  "Yeah,” he says.  “It’s weird at first—hey.  While we’re on the subject, d’you ever wonder if the Wizard got used to living in Oz?”

It’s not the sort of question she usually encounters over drinks.  “Come again?”

“Well, he’s from Kansas, right?” he says  “And sometimes I think, y’know, of course he got used to it.  Adored across the land, legendary persona, all the riches he can possibly imagine— _and_ , I bet the Wizard got laid, like, _whenever_ he wanted.”

“Sure,” Jane agrees.

“He probably got used to it, right?” he continues on, and it’s abundantly clear that he’s put hours of serious thought into this.  “Like, some schmuck from Kansas goes up in a tornado and suddenly he gets a spot on Oz’s Most Eligible Bachelors list.  That’s not a bad deal.”

“Lady Penelope wasn’t kidding,” she teases.  “You really are a lightweight.”

“It’s just, the thing that always gets me is that balloon,” he says, and there’s stars in his eyes.  Not Croatia stars, not Tracy Island stars.  These are the ones from back home.  These are Kansas stars.  “I mean, everything else is fine, but he _kept_ his hot air balloon, right?  Why?”

“Is this really the rabbit hole you want to go down, junior?”

“That’s Alice.  Don’t confuse your nineteenth century literature, Jane, it’s unforgivable.”

“My bad.  Please, tell me more.  Why did he keep his balloon?”

He squints.  “You’re making fun of me.”

“Am not,” she says, but she is a little bit, because they’re both a little happy.  “I really want to know.  Why do you think he kept his balloon?”

“I think he wanted to go home.”  

The bartender puts two more shots in front of them.  Gordon nods a thanks, but neither of them drink.  “But you just said—”

“I think he was probably used to it for a while, but Kansas was home, y’know?  I mean, the money, the girls—it’s nice.  Don’t get me wrong.  But sometimes I catch a glance at Scott and he’s… I dunno.  Sometimes it looks like he wishes he’d kept his balloon.”

“Gordon,” she cautions.  “This isn’t about the Wizard, is it?”

He looks back up at her, grins.  His hand finds its way to his shot and he preps his salt on the back of his thumb.  “I guess all I’m saying is that the Wizard kind of got thrown into his life in Oz, y’know?  He didn’t go looking for it, he just got caught up in some wind.”

“Gordon…”

“This isn’t him, Jane,” he says.  “Scott, I mean.  This isn’t him and I know you know that, and I know you’re not upset, and blah de blah de blah.  I know.  But he’s flying around here like a monkey with his head cut off because he thinks that he’s gone and made himself look like a total tool.”

“Well to be fair,” she says.  “He has gone and made himself look like a total tool.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty good at that.”  Gordon takes the shot, quick to the lime.  His face is all scrunched up and Jane can’t help a laugh.  He shakes his head and lets out a laugh of his own.  “Listen, I’m not your mom.  You can do what you want.  But a little birdie tells me you’ve got some money in your purse and if I were you?  I’d grab Scott and make him hijack one of these helicopters for you.  Book it straight to a McDonalds in middle america and smash on some _real_  food.”

She rolls her eyes.  “Okay, well, for the record I can hijack my own helicopter.”

“Yeah,” says Gordon, and there’s those stars again.  “He’s mentioned.”

And before she has a chance to ask what that means, Glinda the Good Witch is at her side, gleaming with a smile that only she could make look genuine.  “Gordon.”  He’s got a hand around Lady Penelope’s waist before she can even say, “Dance with me.”

The two of them make their way to the center of the floor and, in their wake, they leave behind a boy.  Tall.  Handsome.  A little embarrassed.  Scott takes those few steps between them, seems to hold his breath.  “Hi,” she says.

He smiles.  “Hi.”


	5. want of a heart

 The music wafting over the dance floor has slowed in the same way that the conversation around the room has quieted, and in the open air the sound of the sea far below almost sets a better rhythm than the soft, sweet jazz.

Penelope’s left a pair of strappy black heels to stand sentinel at the edge of the dance floor, and in exchange for a drop in height that lets her head rest against his chest, Gordon’s being especially careful of her bare feet. Barely moving at all, in fact.

It’s not really about dancing, anyway.

“Are they talking?” she murmurs, low enough that only Gordon could possibly hear her. “Turn me around, I want to see.”

Theirs is a slow, leisurely revolution, but Penelope’s thoughts are wandering in and out in the long spaces between Gordon’s heartbeat, and she’s getting intensely curious about Scott and Jane. If she could just get a _glimpse_ — “Shh. Don’t meddle. S'fine, Pen.”

One of Gordon’s hands is warm, snug at the small of her back, and the other has her fingers clasped close against his chest. She doesn’t look up, just huffs softly. “Gordon. This is important.” A beat of silence and another _babump_ of his heart. “I’m not _meddling_.”

There’s a firm kiss to the top of her head and then Gordon’s embrace around her tightens just slightly. “Mmm. Nah. S'good, Pen, real good. I did the wingman thing. ’M’ _real_ good at the wingman thing. So Scotty’s got it covered. I did all the hard work. S'just gotta bring her in for a landing.” In her ear, softly, there’s a _nyoooom_ sound effect, makes her giggle. Penelope’s perfectly aware of her own mild, warmly pleasant buzz—Gordon’s tipped past tipsy and is cozily, happily, affectionately drunk.

“What did you say?” she asks, leaning back to look up at him.

Glossy brown eyes blink at her and his brow furrows slightly. “Dunno. Um  _mmm_. Come back to me, I gotta remember it. Was _real_ good. What’d _you_ say?”

Penelope nestles her cheek against his chest again, sighs contentedly. “To her or to him?” she inquires, because by this point she’s spoken to both Scott and Jane.

“ _Him_ , duh. Jane’s not gotta need to be told any damn thing. Right? Right, ‘cuz of how she’s totally got this. She’s got him  _pegged_ , pretty sure. Preeeeeeetty sure she is _good_.”

“The Captain is very capable, yes,” Penelope agrees, with that perfect parody of solemnity she affects in response to Gordon’s _I am drunk but also I am still very serious_ voice, the one that rambles and wanders through subjects and adds extra words left, right and center.

“I asked her to marry me but she said _no_.”

“What a terrible tragedy, my darling. It’s entirely her loss.”

“Did you tell Scott about how she doesn’t like limes?” There’s still a faint whisper of citrus on his breath as Penelope tilts her face up again, smiles into the impulsive kiss that gets pressed against her lips. He pulls away and leans in to press his forehead against hers. And then, in a conspiratorial whisper, “I can’t _marry_ anyone who _doesn’t like limes._ ” His hand leaves hers and comes up to cradle her cheek. “D'you like limes?” he asks, as though the weight of the entire world hangs on the answer to this very important question.

“I _love_ them,” she answers, very serious. Penelope turns her face to kiss his open palm, even as his thumb rubs over the curve of her cheekbone. “Scott neglected to tell me that, about Captain Jane Carter. And limes. How perfectly unfortunate. We shan’t invite her to the wedding.”

Gordon has to think about that one, but ultimately decides to be merciful. “No, she can come. S'fine. Scott’ll bring her anyhow. We getting married?” He grins at her, the hand at her back gives her another little squeeze. “Yay!”

Penelope can’t help a laugh at this and her arms loop around the back of his neck, her hands clasping at the fuzzy curls just above his collar. “I don’t know, my love, you didn’t ask me. You asked Captain Carter.”

“And _she_ said _no_.”

They’ve come full circle and Penelope had almost failed to notice. If the mention of the other blonde’s name hadn’t caught Gordon’s attention and had him look up towards the bar, she’d have forgotten to look herself. And she’s disappointed—Scott and Jane have disappeared. “Oh, bother,” she grumbles and sighs as she presses her face back into Gordon’s jacket. “I wanted to see how it was going.”

“S'fine. Wingman! _Talk to me, Goose_. Right? Oh! Right, right, yeah, 'cuz of how I told her—” Gordon’s voice drops into a whisper again, low and warm in her ear, secretive. “— _because_ of how I told her about how Scott is _the wizard_.”

“…oh?”

“Of _Oz_ , Pen. With the balloon. S'all about the balloon, right, 'bout how he’s still got it. 'Cuz Scooter’s still got it. Gotta hang on to the balloon. Because of _Kansas_.”

Ah, Americana. Of course. He forgets, sometimes, that her own cultural hallmarks aren’t the same as his. She hasn’t seen it, but it seems imprudent to mention. Apologetically, she pats his cheek. “Of course. Well, between your advice and my advice, hopefully Scott manages to sort it all out.”

“Mm. Mmhm. What’d _you_ talk about?”

Penelope chuckles softly. “Colorado. New England. Cape Canaveral. Kansas.” She pauses and breathes in the scent of his cologne, citrus once again, sweet and fresh and sunshiney. “California.”

Possibly she could’ve predicted the appreciative little nod against the top of her head and the approving way he comments, “Mmm, Cali.”

“Are there limes in California?”

He finds this question disproportionately funny, laughs a little too loud. “Dunno. Maybe. Probably someplace. Oranges, for sure. Lemons.”

“We should go see,” Penelope tells him, remembering all the things Scott had told her. About the beach boy hair she’s twining her fingers into, the surfer’s body she’s pressed up against. The smell of sand and salt and citrus, sunshine and gold and warmth. “California. Gordon, darling, would you take me to California?”

“Sure, Pen,” Gordon agrees, and grins. He adds, unnecessarily, “I like California. Man. Oh man, lemme _tell you_ 'bout California, Penny. Because…okay, like. So. Redwoods. Right? D'you know about California Redwoods, because _oh man_ —”

And off he goes. And she’ll listen, enraptured. She smiles and spares a final thought for Scott and Jane. Wonders what Scott has to say about Kansas, and hopes that Captain Jane Carter gets to hear about it someday. Nestling her head against Gordon’s shoulder again, losing herself in his voice, she hopes she gets to see California, sooner rather than later.

 


	6. over the rainbow

“Easy and…”

When polymer hits pine, it’s easy to forget that they’re currently floating along the coast of Croatia with people who make more money in an hour than she makes in an entire year.  It’s easy to forget that Scott Tracy, actual legacy to the Tracy Industries empire, is the same Scott that’s currently wrapped up around her, hand on her hip, his guiding arm along her own.  There’s just something about the sturdy _cluck_ of a bowling ball that brings with it the smell of old shoes and the taste of cheap nachos.  Billion-dollar yacht or not—you can take the bowling alley out of Kansas, but apparently Kansas will stick to the bowling alley like day-old spilled cola.

The pins clatter.  “See?” he says, and his hands linger.  He stands at her back like a shadow, smiling down at her.  “Not so hard.  Try it.”

He takes those crucial steps back, warmth leaving her.  She can’t help but think that he’s missed the point.  “Little old me?” she says, turning to retrieve her ball from the return.  “Well, I sure will try my hardest.”

“It takes some practice,” he says.  “Don’t get frustrated if you—“

He’s cut off by the sound of pins, specifically ten of them, as they go down in a single, effortless strike.  She turns slowly, so as to get the full effect of seeing Scott staring at her, jaw halfway to the floor.  “You said you were bad at this,” he reminds her.  “Worst bowler I’ve ever seen—remember?”

“I’m a little bit of a liar.”

“You’re a _lotta_ bit of a liar.”

“Well I had to get your arms around me somehow, didn’t I?” she says.  Then, to herself, “God knows you weren’t going to do it on your own.”

He doesn’t know much about her yet, but he has learned that Jane has these moments.  She’s a lot like Gordon in that, even when she tries, she can’t quite manage the idea of  _quiet_.  Or maybe she isn’t trying very hard at all, because more and more it’s beginning to seem like Jane only speaks when she intends to be heard.  Evidently, he’s still got a lot to learn about the woman who bowls perfect strikes, but one thing has been made clear from the start: she’s not just some dumb blonde.  

Scott, on the other hand.  “Oh,” he says, realization rolling over him.  “ _Oh_.  Oh god, I’m an idiot.”

“Well, I didn’t say it.”

“Listen, Jane.  Can we—?”  He stumbles over his words, takes a few steps closer.  “I’m just going to talk at you for a minute.  Is that okay?  Can I just talk?”

She reaches out for his tie, cool sleek grey atop rosy pink, and guides him over that invisible threshold he’s seemed to have placed between them.  “Scott, I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me all night,” she says, and she has to look up at him.  There’s a moment when she wonders if he’s grown taller than the maximum 77 inches since his days as a Captain, or if he’s always sat right on the edge.  “So hit me.  Talk away.  What’s the best you’ve got?”

His smile is an uncertain thing, met with a huff that doesn’t seem to have been entirely conscious.  There’s this nervous sort of stage fright about him as he watches her, like he’s forgotten whatever line he’s supposed to say next and he’s frantically trying to remember.  Then, finally, there’s a deep breath in.  “Jane,” he says.  “There’s this—there’s this thing I think about sometimes.  About people and places and… um.  Well, it’s, I mean.  It’s where the truest version of a person comes from and—god, the more I talk the dumber it sounds.  This sounded better when I said it to Lady Penelope.”  His eyes flash back at her, wide.  “Not that I was—I mean—she’s a good friend of mine and I—”

“It’s okay,” she says.  “Gordon asked me to marry him.  I get it.”

Scott blinks.  “Come again?”

“Don’t worry, I said no,” she tells him, leaving two pats on his side.  Meanwhile Scott’s brain hasn’t quite figured out that his body is this close to her, leaving him with his hands out to his sides, trying to piece his sentences together.  “Anyways, you were saying?  Truest version?”

“Yeah” he says.  “Well, I mean, we were talking about Gordon—Lady Penelope and I—and I told her how, obviously, Gordon is California, right?”

“Obviously,” says Jane.

“Right,” Scott agrees.  “That’s just… where he fits in the world.  They match.  It’s like that kids toy, with the pegs and the holes.  Gordon fits in the California hole.  And Virgil—you’ve met Virgil, right?  Virgil fits in the Colorado hole.  I was explaining to Lady Penelope that, well, everyone has these places that really represent the truest self—at least, in my head anyways.  I really only ever half-think about it, usually when I’m lost in flight.  It doesn’t really make sense in black and white—“

“No, I get it,” she says, and she does.  Every pilot has their thing—that thought they have every time their heads get lost in the clouds.  Jane’s got one of her own, something about the colors of the sunset and all the ways they keep showing up.  “I like it.  What did Lady Penelope say about it?”

He trips over his tongue, looks at her like she’s exactly the last person he wants to see.  There’s a split second when Jane hears Lady Penelope’s voice in her head, talking about these Tracy boys and how much it takes to leave them speechless.  “Well,” he says.  “She asked me what place you were.”

“ _Oooh_ ,” she says, wrapping her arms around his waist.  This, finally, seems to clue him in on the fact that he’s supposed to have a hand on her hip.  “The plot thickens.  Please, go on.  Tell me all about me.”

He rolls his eyes, but affectionately, and with good amount of the roll aimed at himself as well as her.  “Kansas,” he says, and she imagines that if he were the sort of person who blushed, he would be doing it now.  “I mean, you’re—I dunno.  You’re Kansas, to me.”

And now it’s Jane’s turn to be speechless.

Not that she isn’t flattered—except that Kansas is a pretty big answer, right?  It’s her home, sure, but more importantly it’s _his_ home.  She had been expecting the cafe they first met up at, maybe the cliff that they had, at one point, been hanging from by an industrial strength thread.  “Oh.”

He panics.  “Yeah, it’s dumb.  Forget I said anything.  It’s just a stupid—“

“No,” she says.  “No, it’s not dumb.  It’s just that”—she laughs—“Kansas, wow.  I mean, people always tell _me_ that I move too fast, but _you_ , Scott Tracy…”

“Too much?”

She smiles.  Studies him.  “Nah,” she says.  “You can’t help yourself.  You’re the Wizard.”

“… How many shots did you take, exactly?”

“Unimportant,” she tells him.  “I was just thinking about something Gordon said.”

“You have to be careful doing that,” Scott warns.  “Most of the time Gordon doesn’t even think about what Gordon says.”

“Be nice to your brother,” she says.  “I’d kill to have a brother.  Or a sister.  You big family kids don’t know how good you’ve got it.  And besides, I think he’s onto something.”

“We are talking about the same Gordon, right?”

“Where do you fit into all of this?” she wonders, but she’s pretty sure she already knows the answer.  “What place have you got yourself pegged for, when you’re way up in the sky looking down at mountains grey and oceans blue?”

He doesn’t hesitate, looks as confident as ever when he answers, “Tracy Island.  Just like Dad.”

And suddenly she understands why Gordon spends all that time thinking about the Wizard and his balloon.  She’s looking at Scott and she knows he believes himself, but the truth is that he’s got the broad shoulders of a boy who grew up on the farm.  His entire personality is the wind that doesn’t stop blowing.  She’s got this image of him as a kid with his brothers, in the woods of someone’s backyard, hunting frogs in the creek, picking flowers for their mother, racing each other until the sun sets and waiting until dawn to do it all over again.  It’s so _easy_ , to imagine him back home.  “I think you’re stuck in Oz, Scott,” she says.  “The Great and Powerful Wizard. It’s got a nice ring to it, but I think you might be on the wrong side of the rainbow.”

He laughs, light.  “I haven’t seen that movie in ages.”

“You should give it another watch,” she tells him, pulling away once more, slow, certain, and with a wink that’s sure to send him melting.  “It’s the one where Dorothy realizes she always belonged in Kansas.”

She doesn’t need the sound of pins to tell her that she’s bowled another strike.  The look on Scott’s face is proof enough as her words land right where they’re supposed to.  With that, she retrieves her ball from the return and looks back up at him with those big blue eyes.  “Now then,” she says.  “Are you gonna help me with this, or are you just going to stand there wishing you still had your arms around me?”

His smile is the sort of thing that belongs in the back of a pickup truck.  “You really think I’m Kansas?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says.  “You really think I am?”

“Yeah.”  And she feels his eyes on her, from bowling shoes to bobbi pins.  “Hey, do you wanna get outta here?”

“I was going to see if I could bowl a perfect game—“

“Jane,” he tries, and this time he’s the one to close that gap.  To hold her hand, to look down at her and wonder if she always sat on the edge of the required 64 inches, or if she had to fight her way there.  “Let’s get outta here.”

She can’t stop the smile as it spreads across her lips.  As it turns out, Jane Carter _is_ the type of person who blushes, so she looks down before he can see, would rather die than let him know just how pretty she feels in a dress off the rack with only seventy-seven dollars in her purse.  “Does it really cost a _billion_ dollars to run this yacht?”

“Twenty billion,” he says.  “Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard?”

She laughs, because of course it is. “If we leave now, I bet we can still make the sunset in Kansas.”

“Well then,” he says, holding his arm out for her to hold.  “We’d better get going.”


End file.
